


blood of the covenant

by wednesdayevening



Series: take a look in that mirror, now tell me who's the fairest [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Trans TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Transphobia, deadnaming, no beta we die like men, trans author, wilbur is a good brother, yeah this is late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28426923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesdayevening/pseuds/wednesdayevening
Summary: “You mentioned not fitting in with your family,” Wilbur says softly. His voice is like a hug, and Tommy leans closer so he’s pressed against his side. “But - I wanted to show you that this is your family, Toms.” We’re your family. We all love you so very much.”tommy's family aren't the best. it's a good thing he has another.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: take a look in that mirror, now tell me who's the fairest [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069958
Comments: 83
Kudos: 1914





	blood of the covenant

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably a bit more found family than trans tommy cos id really like a nice family right about nowdsjfshdfkj. i think there’s only gonna be one more installment in this series but ill keep writing trans shit because,,,,,rep. if you guys have any trans mcyt requests let me know i’d love to write more! also the support on my other fics,,,,guys,,,i love you,,,

Tommy loves his family. He really does. It’s just - at times, they can be so incredibly exhausting.

Christmas is one of those times. This year he’s at his Aunt’s. Yesterday was dinner with his Dad’s side of the family, and Tommy is socially drained. It’s been a massive year for him - in the span of less than six months his little 100k channel grew into a following of _four fucking million_ , and he couldn’t be happier, but he’s done so much this year and he’s just tired. It’s selfish, but the last thing he wants to be doing right now is faking smiles and hanging with his Mum’s family.   
  
“Talk about teenage angst,” Tommy whispers to himself. He’s in the kitchen, the room with the least amount of family members. His cousin is leaning against the wall, chatting animatedly with Tommy’s aunt and nursing a cup of coffee.

“Need me to help with anything, Gran?” Bill asks. 

Tommy thumbs through his phone awkwardly, hiding from the exchange on Twitter. _merry christmas pogchamps,_ he posts, and then watches the likes and replies flood in. 

“Oh, no, dear,” Their Grandma says. Tommy looks up. She’s dottering around behind the kitchen bench with his aunt and mother in a flowered apron. Tommy thinks she looks kind of adorable. “Go hang out with the men, Bill. Just us ladies in the kitchen today.” 

“Okay, Gran.” Bill leaves his empty mug on the island and moves toward the living room doorway to join the boisterous shouting. He shrugs half-heartedly at Tommy and disappears through. Tommy listens as his voice mingles the others.

 _You should join them,_ his brain instructs. His thumb hovers over Dream’s newest tweet, wishing all his viewers a happy holiday. _It’s Christmas. Be social._ He likes the tweet and unfolds himself from where he had been wedged in one of his Aunt’s plush armchairs. He stretches, spine lengthening and joints popping, and steps away from the kitchen. 

“Ah, Tommy,” His Grandma says. There’s a spatula in one of her hands and a ladle in the other. It’s a sight, and all Tommy wants to do is capture it and send it to Will or Phil or Techno or Tubbo. “Come give your Gran a hand in the kitchen, please.”

Tommy steps forward obediently, sliding his phone into his jeans, and then the weight of her words hit him like a truck. _She’d wanted me and not Bill. What did she say to him? That only the women were in the kitchen?_

“Uh,” He tries, heart plummeting, “I was going to go hang with - with Bill.”

Grandma turns to stir the pot simmering on the stove. He catches his Aunt’s eye and ignores her raised eyebrow. His own mother seems oblivious. “You can hang with them later, dearie.” Her tone signifies it’s the end of the conversation. She holds out a wooden spoon and gestures to the potatoes. Tommy’s skin crawls. 

It’s not that he hates cooking. It’s actually kind of fun, even if he’s horrible at it. It’s his Grandma subconsciously not counting him as male that pisses him off. It’s his Aunt’s annoyed face. It’s his Mum, not realising her son is upset. His chest tightens, and it’s not because of his binder. He needs _out_. 

“Just a second, Grandma,” He manages. “Gotta go to the loo.”

He ducks out the doorway and into the bathroom. As he locks the door behind him and tries to steady his breathing ( _stupid weak are you serious you’ve had so much worse it’s just your grandma you’re really getting upset about one stupid comment boys don’t cry boys don’t cry boys don’t_ ) he hears his Grandma speak from the kitchen. 

“He’s a troublesome kid, that one.”

And, fuck. There’s no keeping his tears at bay now. He jams the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars and sinks to the floor. _Christmas is fun._

* * *

It only goes downhill from there. 

Tommy helps with cooking in the end. He pulverises the mashed potatoes and takes a short, silent video of the action to send to Techno later. Dinner actually looks pretty good in the end. There’s a mouthwatering golden chicken and a whole leg of Christmas ham, mountains of roast vegetables and freshly-baked bread, pasta salads and heaped plates of peas and trays of brussel sprouts. (He avoids those - partly because they’re fucking brussel sprouts, and partly because his aunt made them and he wouldn’t put it past her to slip holy water in his serving.) 

They all sit down at the table - one long, wooden monstrosity with mismatched chairs - and Tommy thinks that this day might be redeeming itself. He pulls a Christmas cracker with his Uncle and wins a flimsy paper crown and a paper slip. He passes it to his opponent, who reads it out for the family. _Huh,_ he thinks, piecing a roasted potato with his fork, _this could be going worse._

The Christmas joke settles in the air like thick dust and for a couple of peaceful minutes the only sound is the scraping of cutlery on china, and then - 

“Isn’t your hair a bit short?” His Grandpa says. “I liked it better when it was longer. It suited you more, Eleanor.” 

_Nevermind_ , Tommy thinks. He swallows thickly and stares, angry. _How fucking - how fucking_ dare _he._ The words push past his open, aghast mouth before he can stop them: “That’s not my fucking name, and you know it.” 

The table falls silent. In his peripheral vision, he sees his cousins elbow each other and jerk their heads in his direction. His uncle coughs. Tommy sneaks a glance at his mum. She’s staring at her fork so intently Tommy’s surprised it hasn’t bent under her gaze. 

“What a trouble maker,” His Aunt says conversationally. She turns to whisper to Tommy’s baby cousins, hand cupped over her mouth but voice raised intentionally so he can still hear her. “This is what the internet does to you, my babies.” 

His Grandpa makes a noise in the back of his throat and shuffles to his seat at the head of the table. Tommy catches his mumbled ‘disappointment’ and stands up abruptly. _Who gives a fuck if I make a scene. They all hate me anyway._

He pushes open the glass sliding door with a shaking hand and reaches into his pocket for his phone. The door closes behind him with a resounding thump and he sinks down out of view from his family on his aunt’s back steps. He breathes in and out, in and out just like Wilbur said in a fruitless attempt to quell his anger. It doesn’t work and he opens his phone in search of another distraction. 

His friend’s private and public Instagram stories are jam-packed with photos and boomerang videos of lunches and laughter. He watches Tubbo open a cracker with his little sister, win, and give the cracker to her anyway. He sees Phil’s mouth-watering Christmas dinner and laughs at Techno’s poor attempt at a Christmas tree - a wilting bonsai with a sad piece of tinsel thrown over it. He scrolls until there’s nothing more to scroll through and then, because right now he misses them just a bit more, sends his friends individual messages wishing them a merry Christmas. 

_merry crisis, blade. if you’re planning to steal presents from orphans this season, don’t get caught :)_

_MERRY CHRISTMAS PHILZA MINECRAFT HAVE A GOOD DAY WILL SEE U ON STREAM_

_merry christmas willllburrrrrr thank you for everything big man_

_BIG TTTTTTTTT MERRY CHRISTMAS LY_

The message to Tubbo goes through with a _ping_. Barely seconds pass and his phone is ringing with a FaceTime call. He swipes to answer it and wipes his eyes hastily as his gravelly camera loads his face in - his eyes are tinged with red, and the last thing he wants is for his best friend to be worried about him on Christmas. 

“Tommy!” Tubbo screams. His background is a blur of red and green. He can hear giggles and wine glasses clinking and _The Polar Express -_ Tubbo’s favourite Christmas movie. The call run time is barely thirty seconds and Tommy can already feel his mood improving - Tubbo is the best. “Merry Christmas, big man!”

“Merry Christmas, Tubbo,” Tommy laughs. He hopes his family can’t hear him inside. Maybe, on second thought, he wants them to - to listen to his laughs and know he’s happier without them. “Did you get any good shit?”

“One sec, Tommy - Lani, I’m calling Tommy, could you be a bit quieter, please?” The camera angle moves and Tubbo’s little sister’s face pops into the screen. The frame shakes - Lani has stolen Tubbo’s phone. 

“Tommmyyyy,” She screeches, “I stole Toby’s phone!”

“I can see that, child,” Tommy says. He hears Tubbo yelling in the background: “ _Lani! Santa will_ revoke _your presents - hey! I’m telling Mum - Lani!”_

“You’re, like, three years older than me, you’re still a child,” Lani screams. All Tommy can see is a colourful blur. 

“Sorry about that,” Tubbo apologises once he’s regained control of his phone. He frowns. “Are you okay, Tommy? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Tommy says. “I’m at my Aunt’s house.”

“Outside?” Tubbo asks. His frown deepens when Tommy nods. 

There’s a shout at Tubbo’s end of the call. “Yeah, sorry, I’ll be down in a second.” He turns back to Tommy and smiles apologetically. “Sorry, man - gotta go to dinner. I’ll call you later?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “See you, Big T.”

The call ends, and then suddenly it’s ringing again. A hilariously distorted photoshopped image of Wilbur fills the screen. He hits the green accept button with a giggle and raises the phone to his ear. 

“Merry Christmas, Toms!” 

“Merry Christmas, Wilbur.” 

“How’s your Christmas, Mr. Innit?” Wilbur says. Tommy feels his bad mood ebb away like panadol removing the effects of a headache, and he grins, sinking onto the snow-dusted lower step of his Aunt’s porch. 

“How’s yours going, Wil?” Tommy counters. He doesn’t want to ruin his mood with talk of his family. 

Over the line, Wilbur quietens for a moment. “Good, good,” He hums finally, “went home this morning. Did you know my mum’s subscribed to Dream, but not me?”

Tommy wheezes. “Oh, my god, no way.”

“Yes way,” Wilbur says. He pauses. “Toms, Tubbo mentioned - well, he texted and said you looked sad. Is something the matter?” 

Tommy wants to lie. Wilbur’s his brother in everything but blood, but before that he was his idol, and Tommy still looks up to him more than he’d like to admit. He really doesn’t want to tarnish Wilbur’s view of him, but when he opens his mouth to change the subject his voice cracks, and the words spill out. “Fuck, Wilbur.” He hates himself for speaking. Hates how quiet his voice is, hates how fucking weak it sounds. “I shouldn’t care what people think of me, but my - my grandma doesn’t think of me as male, my cousins don’t know how to talk to me, my aunt keeps side-eyeing me, my mum doesn’t even realise what’s happening.” Tommy breathes. “Wil, I feel so out of place.” 

“Fuck.” Wilbur’s reply is immediate. He leaves no room for Tommy to dwell on his blurted sentences. “Listen, Toms. You know that shit old poem? Blood of the - “

“Blood is thicker than water, yeah,” Tommy interrupts. He holds his head in one hand and death stares the concrete steps. “How’s that supposed to fuckin’ help?”

“Jesus, no,” Wil sighs. “Your generation - what are they teaching you kids in schools? The poem is blood of the _covenant_ is thicker than the water of the _womb_ , Tommy. I’m saying you choose your family.”

Tommy crushes a browned leaf beneath his fingers. “O - oh.”

“We’re your family,” Wil continues. “Phil and Techno and Tubbo and I. And Nikki. And literally everyone. I have absolutely no clue how you wormed your way into everyone’s hearts, but you did. We all love you.”

“God, Wil,” Tommy says, emotional. “I - you’re gonna make me cry. What will Twitter say? My macho-man points will be lost.”

He can practically hear Wilbur shaking his head. “Fuck gender roles,” Wil snorts. “Fuck Twitter too, for that matter.”

He laughs along with his brother. Outside, leaves fall from his Aunt’s tree and scatter carelessly on the ground. One floats by his scuffed sneaker and he picks it up with his free hand, ripping it piece by piece ‘till all he’s left with is the leaf spine. He twirls it between his fingertips.

“Hey,” Wilbur says suddenly. “What’re you doing tonight, child?”

“Not a child,” Tommy says immediately. “Er - nothing? I’d probably stream if it weren’t for the horrible view count I’d get; everyone’s at Christmas right now. My poor ego would be severely damaged if Dream got ahold of those incredibly low numbers.”

Wilbur laughs. Tommy can hear his fingers flying across his keyboard and sits forward on the step, confused. “Wilbur, why do I get an impression you’re up to something?” 

“Oh,’ Wilbur says. The keyboard noises do not stop. “Would you look at the time - pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Innit - see you soon, uh - later!” 

He hangs up. Tommy stares at his blank phone screen. “Fucking weird.” 

Outside, tiny snowflakes float delicately from the sky. A small part of Tommy wants to call Wilbur back. Inside, somebody roars with laughter. 

Tommy feels alone.

* * *

“Tommy!” 

“Coming!” 

The doorbell is ringing incessantly, and Tommy curses whatever carol-singing group of old ladies is behind it for disturbing his self-pitying wallowing. He races down the stairs, flings open the door, a ‘fuck off’ ready on his sharp tongue, and stops. 

“Merry Christmas!” Wilbur greets. He’s decked out in an absolutely revolting Christmas sweater complete with garish baubles and actual tinsel. There’s a santa hat on his head and a bag under his arm. 

“Merry Christmas,” Tommy echoes, confused. His bewilderment must show on his face, because Wil snorts. Tommy steps out of the doorway to let him in. “The fuck are you doin’ here, big man?”

“Ah,” Wilbur says instead, ignoring the question. Tommy glances up and follows Wil’s eyeline - his mother is standing at the end of the hallway, phone at her ear, sharing a similar expression to Tommy. Wilbur opens his mouth to explain himself, but she gestures to the phone and waves instead. Tommy stifles a laugh as Wilbur attempts to wave back. “Anyway. Where’s your room, gremlin child?”

“I’m sixteen, I’m not a child,” Tommy argues, but points up the stairs anyway. He takes them two at a time but Wilbur still beats him, laughing like a child when he reaches the top. “No fair. You’ve got the legs of fucking antelopes.”

“ _Antelopes_ ,” Wil echoes, chuckling. He pushes open Tommy’s door and stares around the room. “Better antelopes than fucking _anteaters_.”

Tommy laughs and follows him inside. His room isn’t big, but it’s nice. His streaming setup dominates a vast majority of the space. Outside of the camera frame is a double bed pressed into the corner and a dresser. There’s a trans flag behind his gaming setup. Wilbur smiles at it. “Cool.”

Tommy cracks a grin. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re bothering me?”

“Bothering you?” Wilbur teases. “Wow. Ouch. I didn’t realise my presence was disturbing you so much, Mister Innit. I guess I’ll leave.” He makes no move toward the door. 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You’re a piece of shit.” 

He flings himself onto his bed, rolling over so Wilbur and all his 6”5 might can fit. His brother runs a hand over the framed Hamilton star on his wall. “Nice.”

He smirks. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re here now?” 

Wilbur huffs. “Impatient, are we?” He pulls his bag up to his knees and rummages around in it before producing a laptop sleeve. Inside is Wil’s battered laptop, adorned in stickers from the different places around the globe he’s been to - Ireland, France, Germany, Italy, America. 

“I already have a laptop,” Tommy deadpans. “I’m a streamer, big man.”

“I’m not giving you my laptop, dickhead,” Wilbur says. He flicks open the lid and tilts it away from Tommy’s line of view. His fingers fly across the keyboard. Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

“You better not be showing me porn, big man,” Tommy chastises. “I’m a minor.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a child?” Wilbur counters. Tommy falls silent and he stops typing. “Okay. So. You better not let Twitter get a hold of this. It’s pretty cringy.”

He flips the laptop around. Zoom is open to a new call. Tommy can see Tubbo and Techno, Phil and Nikki, Fundy and Eret. Wilbur moves his cursor pointer and a whole new range of tiles pop up - Dream, Sapnap, George, Bad. Tommy’s pretty sure the entire SMP is here. He glances at the laptop, and then back to his brother, eyes stinging. “Wilbur, wh - what?”

“You mentioned not fitting in with your family,” Wilbur says softly. His voice is like a hug, and Tommy leans closer so he’s pressed against his side. “But - I wanted to show you that this is your family, Toms. We’re your family. We all love you so very much.”

Tommy exhales. He’s glad Wilbur’s webcam is off right now; he thinks he might cry out of happiness. He throws himself at his brother, arms tightening around his shoulders and buries his face in the crook of Wil’s neck. “I - this means so fucking much, you have no idea. Thank you - thank you, Wilby. I love you.”

Wilbur holds him, comforting and warm and nice. He doesn’t need to say ‘I love you’ back for Tommy to know he does. They stay there for a moment, quiet and just - just _happy_ , and then Tommy leans back to wipe his eyes while Wilbur turns the camera on. Everyone screams and yells and laughs, and for the next couple of blissfully ecstatic hours Tommy is nothing but elated. Dream tells horribly corny Christmas Cracker jokes. Quackity blesses them with a crackhead cover of _All I Want For Christmas_ that leaves the entire call winded from cry-laughing. Halfway through the call they switch to one big voice call and hop on the SMP and shower each other in presents and giggles. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever had more fun than this in his life. 

It’s early morning when the call finally ends and he says a delirious goodbye to all his friends and thank you to his brother. With tired eyes he waves Wilbur’s car out of his driveway and practically falls into bed, stomach hurting from laughing so hard, face aching from smiling. Today had started horrible and ended as one of the best nights of his life. As his eyes flutter shut, Tommy thinks of his friends. “ _We all love you_ ,” Wilbur had said. Tommy has a whole other family - a family he loves and laughs with and who loves him in return, and he couldn’t be more thankful.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! leave kudos and comments they make my day. come yell at me on my tumblr: wednesdayyevening


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